


Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

by ominousrum



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Mild Smut, just a tiny bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9788336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ominousrum/pseuds/ominousrum
Summary: Killian Jones returns to a town he wishes he'd never set foot in..





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kjb2609](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kjb2609/gifts).



> for the wonderful Kath!
> 
> title inspired by lyrics from Florence + the Machine's Shake It Out

Killian Jones was no stranger to dive bars, having seen the inside of dozens in his colourful life; he’d even tasted the floor of a good four or five. He knows the scent of stale beer, leather and cigarettes like he knows that of his own skin. The sticky, wood-varnished haze having taken root in him far too long.

The Rabbit Hole is busy, even for a Friday night. The first evening of true autumn chill in the air has beckoned everyone indoors with promises that alcohol will warm their bones. Killian only wishes to numb his into oblivion.  One of the perks of this particular dive bar is that the owner needs only to see him walk through the door before he’s handing over two full bottles of rum and a glass tumbler with nothing but a nod of acknowledgement.

There’s a tinny, overly pompous guitar solo whining its way into his ears as he pours a generous glass of rum. He frowns at the drop or two that missed their intended target in favour of seeping into the wood and licks his thumb; catching the sweetness from the neck of the bottle before it settles into his ring. Near the back of the bar he’s free to hide in plain sight and watch the night descend into liquid. 

It’s been three years since he darkened the doorway of this particular fine establishment. It’s been an additional seven since he was remotely happy here. Storybrooke held too many painful memories to earn the place of home in his heart, yet he always wound up back in the small town. Back to the start of his misery, like a pirate retracing his steps in confusion that the map marked with an X had failed to lead to its promised riches.

Three years ago Killian had made his way back for a funeral. A funeral for the only real family he’d ever known – his brother Liam. Making peace with the loss of someone who meant the world to him wasn’t really on the cards for the sad imitation of life he had carved out for himself. But the sting grew less acute as time passed, the ache less complete as futility settled into view. With any luck his well-abused liver would bid him to join his brother before too long.

Back to the start meant ten years ago when there was a far less jaded, positively _nauseating_ version of Killian Jones who was utterly besotted with the woman who would be his undoing. He rationalized that being 19 and utterly besotted was probably already a recipe for ruin, whether or not the woman of his affection chose to extricate herself from his life in the blink of an eye.

Emma Swan. Even her name felt romantic on his lips though he tried never to speak it; only succumbing to whispering it like a prayer when the drink had washed all logical thought away. It was laughable when he thought of it at any great length. They had only had a few months together – a drop in the proverbial bucket. Just a jumble of weeks where two silly, love struck teenagers pretended the world had stopped.

  _“What are we doing today, love?” At first mention of the world she had blanched slightly, but as time went on the ends of her mouth curved upwards a fraction._

_“Anything that doesn’t require being vertical.” The lover’s limbs sprawled across the mattress in Killian’s small bedroom._

_“I’m not saying I’d be opposed to the prospect, Swan, just that eventually we may need to eat something.”_

_“Maybe,” Emma yawned wide, lips coming to a close against the fabric of his t-shirt._

_“Do you think if we just stay still this will last forever?” Regret lingered full and bitter on his tongue when she tensed in his arms._

_“Hmm,” Emma curled her fingers under the waistband of his boxers as Killian exhaled a sigh into her hair._

_“I’m not- I just meant I’m happy as I am.”_

_Emma moved to plant a searing kiss on his lips._

Contrary to the persona of town misfit with a drinking problem he took pains to cultivate, he rarely drank in excess these days. There was a precarious point where drinking to forget led to remembering everything in vivid, excruciating detail and the older he got the less he felt like reliving such agony. Nights like tonight, however, Killian was prepared for the descent into hell.

Drink eight was typically when he started to catch glimpses of her. Flashes of the curve of her breasts, of the apples of her cheeks whenever she smiled wide. The brilliant green of her eyes lingered at the bottom of every glass. The gold of her hair the very burn in his throat.

In truth the rum was just the excuse for allowing himself to think of her. His Swan. How foolish it was to love someone no longer there, to pine for someone whose touch was reduced to nothing more than memory. But god, sometimes the memory was _worth it_. So he kept drinking.

The bottom of glass eleven brought with it a change in the air. The din of the pool table growing quieter as someone slammed shut the back door, a chill at their heels.

Killian squints as a halo of blonde hair comes into view. He grips the bottle of rum tightly, wishing to keep hallucinations at bay. Remembering the ghost was one thing, being haunted quite another.

“Killian.” Emma’s voice slides into his ears like a cat slinking through his legs. It circles his brain before coming to rest, curled and immovable at his temple.

A laugh breaks free from his throat, vision hazy as she sits down beside him.

“It’s been too long.” The cat extends a paw towards the cuff of his jacket as he steadies the bottle to pour another drink. Halfway through the twelfth drink it’s clear she’s no vision. She’s contrition and apprehension and he can barely breathe.

“What’s a decade between acquaintances?” Killian plasters a grin to his face before taking another swig of rum.

“We were more than that, Killian.” Emma says, watching his reaction carefully.

“It’s so long ago, I seem to have forgotten.”

“I haven’t.” Emma gives him a small smile, her hands bending and tearing one of the coasters stacked in the middle of the table.

The bartender appears out of nowhere to set down another glass as Killian bristles. He stiffens at the nod to Emma.

“Have you tried rum? That should help you forget.” Killian pushes the second bottle towards her, still refusing to meet her eyes.  

“I didn’t say I wanted to,” Emma says, pulling the glass near her, “I won’t say no to a drink, though.”

They sit sipping in silence for a few minutes, years of unspoken words weaving a web of regret between them. The rum bubbles hot anger into the edges of Killian’s breath, mingling uncomfortably with the underlying joy at he felt at simply seeing her face again.

The jukebox starts to blare Foreigner’s Cold As Ice, several patrons humming along in unison. Killian fails to rein in his snort.

“Well as they’re playing your song Emma, I think that’s my cue to leave. Enjoy the rum.” Killian tosses some money down on the table and stands, a slight wobble in his knees betraying his dramatic exit.

Emma mutters a curse under her breath as she rises to follow him.

***

 

“Don’t bother following me, Emma,” Killian says, allowing delight to momentarily flicker in him at her wince. He may not have much to use against her but letting her name fall from his tongue in disgust would have to suffice.

“When have you ever seen me do what I was told to?” She raises her eyebrows at him and he pushes down the urge to kiss the indignation right out of her.

“What’s the bloody point? Do you need to assuage your guilt? To convince yourself you’re not to blame for the fucking mess I’ve turned out to be? Well save your breath, _love_.”

(His knees threaten to give way completely for a fraction of a second as her remembers her face the last time he called her love. The time he had meant it as an endearment rather than a dagger aimed at her heart).  

“I made my choices, so you’re off the hook there. Now permit me one last mercy and leave me alone.”

“I didn’t want things to turn out like this,” Emma admits, her eyes refusing to leave his face, “there’s a lot I wish I had told you.”

“You didn’t have decency to tell me _anything_. Everyone else got their goodbye. I got confirmation by way of a postcard not even intended for me,” Killian snarls, the rum in his veins dissolving into annoyance, “dumped by proxy by bloody Mary Margaret.”

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye.” Her voice is hollow as her lips disappear into a thin line.

“Bullshit. I may not have seen your face for ten bloody years but I can always read you, Emma,” spitting her name with newly awakened vitriol, “and that’s a bloody lie.”

The silence between them thrums a longing into Killian’s ribs as he watches her fight the emotions dancing across her face. Hope twists and splutters in his stomach a moment before he sees resolve set into her features, her shoulders squaring.

“It doesn’t matter.” Killian answers for her and turns on his heel. The tether to Emma Swan still intact, shrouded in fresh bitterness. The weight of her forever the unwelcome but necessary ghost next to him.

“I was fucking terrified!” Emma erupts and his heart catches in his chest, fraying into confusion. He stops and turns slowly back towards her.

“Of what?” The words fall out of his mouth before he can school his tone into something more apathetic, less hopeful.

“Of us. Everything.”

“Why?” He knows chipping away at her reasons may cause her to run (maybe _forever_ this time) but the need for her words gnaws away at his logic.

“Because I love you!” Her eyes grow wide as saucers as his heart suddenly begins thundering in his chest.

“Loved.” Emma amends softly, her face now a frightened animal searching for a sanctuary. But it’s too late and he closes the few feet between them to breathe in her space.

“You love me, Swan?” Killian isn’t sure if the world is devoid of sound or if the rum has claimed all his senses as he waits, living in the space between her lips.  

Emma lets the very lack of space speak for her, grabbing fistfuls of Killian’s jacket and pressing her mouth to his. It takes him a minute to reconcile fantasy with reality, the shock of her confession still burning cohesive thought from his mind. His hand finds the back of her head and reality winds a sinew he gladly clings to; lips pushing and pulling a haphazard rhythm.

They crash into each other again and again, kisses drawing hands into caresses; lips determined to sear right through flesh with each impact. Minutes tick by until the need to surface for air wins out, neither deeming it wise to stray more an inch or two apart. Their breaths are heady and sweet; far sweeter than rum. Killian wills the taste of her to remain forever on his tongue.

Emma pulls back and Killian tries not to mourn the loss of her too greatly; vaguely registering as her hand slips to curl her fingers around his as they fall from his chest. Once his eyes are focusing properly again the sight of her is everything he’s missed from the last decade.  

The brightness of her smile renders him awestruck. There was his home – as simple as the smile of the woman he loved, **_would always love_** , and he had placed it there on her beautiful face.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” Emma asks, doubt creeping into her voice. It sets off a faint alarm somewhere near the bottom of his heart, but he lets its tone deaden.

“Talk?” Killian repeats, his tongue indignant at the very suggestion it won’t be put to other use.

“Yeah well, I’ve stored up some things to say in years,” she counters.

“I’m staying at Granny’s B&B.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

***

 

The quiet of their walk permits anger to seep back into Killian’s heart. Leeching slowly like water into the bottom of his jeans when he would walk along the shore.

The bed and breakfast is quiet, the thin walls giving no indication of guests around to eavesdrop; the summer tourists having all but cleared out of town.  Killian sits near the head of the bed, kicking his boots off. Emma takes her place beside him, the coral of her dress giving her face an ethereal glow in the lamplight.

She loved him. _Still_. He had never been sure, never allowed himself to take it as a certainty. When she left he’d assumed she didn’t, it was the only thing that made sense to him. He cursed himself for imagining he had seen anything more in her face, had felt anything weighted in her touches. The revelation she loved him all along was both freeing and damning; power and a curse.

“So, talk.” He’s tired of wasting time on pleasantries, a dull ache now beating out a rhythm into his skull. The rum claiming his pores slowly, exhaling its tired fire into the air around him.

“I wanted to come back. I wanted to fix things so many times.”

“Fix things? Was I just a loose end to you, then?”

“Killian, no,” Emma dares to rest a hand on his arm and Killian leans into it, wishing to feel her fingers through the leather of his jacket.

“Go on,” Killian urges, biting back the vitriol on his tongue as best he can.

“I did try to come back once I heard about Liam.” His brother’s name on her lips affords a special torture as he lets his eyes close, waiting for her to continue.

“My flight got delayed a day and a half. By the time I arrived in Storybrooke, they said you had already set sail.”

“I always did prefer sea travel to air.”

“I tried to write to you. I nearly sent you half a dozen letters,” Emma confesses, eyes staring straight ahead of her, “but in the end I couldn’t. Everything I wrote wasn’t enough. You were always better with words, anyway.”

Killian turns to look at her, heart speeding up at the sight. “Why’re you here, Swan?”

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot. _I_ think I’m an idiot, but-“Emma bit her lip, tracing the line of Killian’s jaw with her eyes.

“Try me.”

“It was my birthday on Wednesday…”

“I remember.” Killian interrupts. Emma gives him a watery smile.

“And I had bought myself this pathetic little cupcake from a bakery across the street from my apartment.”

Killian nods for her to continue, memorizing anew the lines and edges of her face as she speaks.

“So I was sitting there, alone, exhausted from work, and staring at this sad lump of sugar. I even bought a candle to go with it. No expense spared for my birthday, you know.”

A smile twitches on Killian’s lips as Emma blushes.

“I thought about the last birthday I was happy. Really, truly happy. Thought about how things had gone so wrong since then and how I wished I could go back.”

“If wishes were cupcakes, eh?”

“Right. So I made a wish.”

“A wish?” An eyebrow arches up Killian’s forehead as Emma frowns.

“I told you you’d think I’m an idiot.”

“I never said that, love.” The last syllable sounds like a confession rather than an apology but neither stop to mention it.

“I wished for a chance at happiness. For whatever fate decided to throw my way.” Emma lets out a long sigh.

“Did you find one?” Killian’s fingers inches closer to Emma, the tips of his fingers ghosting across the back of her hand.

“Well that exact minute I got a call from Mary Margaret. She’d called to wish me a happy birthday but she mentioned you had just arrived back in town.”

“That woman has spies all over town, I reckon.” (Deflect and diffuse, that was the name of the game. The alternative didn’t bother thinking about).

“So I packed a bag and got on the first flight out. Guess I figured fate needed help to get its act together.” Emma covers his hand with hers, body shifting to angle herself towards him.

“Ten years is a long time, Emma.” There’s a lump in his throat he can’t seem to swallow away and the heat of her touch is unbearable.

“I know.”

“Neither of us are the people we used to be.” His lips settle into a fake smile, trying to shift the desire to envelop her in his arms. (Knowing damn well he would never let go).

“That doesn’t mean there isn’t enough of those people left.” Tears are prickling in Emma’s eyes, her heart laid bare before him. She tries to steady her breathing as she watches his face.

“I can’t-“ Killian starts, words dying in his throat as sadness darkens her face, “I couldn’t handle it if I lost you twice, Swan.”

“I can’t say I’ll never be scared again. I’m scared right now, for fuck’s sake.” She lets loose a shaky laugh and his resistance slides out of view. “But I don’t want to run anymore.”

Killian reaches up to brush a few strands of hair from her shoulder and the space between them disappears. It’s such a simple gesture to give way to them crashing into each other again but crash they do. Emma moans low and appreciative against the heat of Killian’s mouth, heart already thrumming against her chest as his tongue dives deeper. Emma tugs his jacket off to toss on the floor, pulling him closer to sink down with her on the bed.

“Killian-“ She’s loathe to interrupt him, especially with the palm of her hand pressing against the scruff on his chin.

“Mm?” He responds with a kiss to her neck that sends sparks right down her spine.

“Are you drunk?”

“Not anymore, love,” Killian confirms, and he isn’t really. The balance of the rum having burned away with each word spoken in earnest, leaving a pleasant warmth radiating in his bones.

“I just wouldn’t want you to regret-“

Killian stops kissing her, leaning back to look into her eyes. “Do you want to stop, Swan? We don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“I think we should, if you’re game,” Emma leans in to nip at his ear lobe, laughing breathlessly against him as he growls, “we have a lot of time to make up for.” Her hips buck towards the bulge in his jeans like a wind-up toy sputtering against inertia, fingers smoothing a trail down his spine.

Killian responds in kind, bruising his lips against every inch of her skin, nearly tearing the dress off her to access more. Clothes are peeled and piled as they devour each other, lips pressing memories back to life. No more the slow, languid lovemaking of a decade ago; no discovery and tenderness now. This is twinned ferocity, animals that only come out at night fighting for their prey.

It’s almost too much for Killian, just to feel himself against the wetness on her thigh. He thrusts his fingers into her folds, relentlessly orchestrating a distraction of her pleasure to stop himself from going over the edge. Emma puffs breathy whines into his shoulder, legs falling wider apart to give him room.

Emma manages to get a grip on her purse from the bedroom floor between moans, fishing out a condom after a few moments of scrambling.

“Confident you were going to get me into bed, Swan?” Killian sneers at the sight, turning his attention to sucking her nipples into peaks as his thumb circles her clit.

“Hopeful,” Emma gasps, a cry twisting itself from her lungs as her orgasm shudders around his touch. They both fumble, temporarily weak in their lust, to roll the condom onto his cock. Emma’s smile as he slips inside her is one he hopes will never fade from his memory. It’s toothy and impossibly happy and tattoos a rhythm of hope into his chest.

He moves in an erratic frenzy, the springs of the bed groaning in protest under their eagerness. Emma wraps her legs around him, heels spurring him to move faster. A swirl of her hips and Killian sinks deeper, driving into her so hard he barely feels his legs anymore. Panting gives way to shouts of ecstasy as they come almost at the same time, Emma falling just moments after Killian moans against her.

Emma curls the hair at the nape of his neck around her fingers as they lay there, sweat cooling into prickles on skin not pressed together. Killian shivers as he manoeuvres the condom off of him, exhaustion pulling his eyelids down as Emma presses soft kisses to his temple. 

***

 

Killian wakes sometime in the night, reluctant to open his eyes for fear of being met with an empty half of the bed. The warmth of Emma greets him before his eyes make out the outline of her body against his, room still dark as rain pelts a soft melody onto the window.  

“God, I missed you,” he exhales a sharp, shuddering breath into her hair and a tiny fraction of pain evaporates into the air around them. Emma doesn’t wake but instinctively shimmies closer to him, hand absently pulling his arm to come to rest across her midsection.

He threads his fingers through hers as sleep claims him once more. 

***

 

The sun creeping across Killian’s eyelids in brilliant flashes of white finally wakes him, his outstretched leg reporting back to his brain the coolness of the sheets underneath him.

“Swan?”

A cursory glances reveals no trace of her, his ears hear no running water nearby to lend hope to the idea she may be in the bathroom. Killian is thankful numbness seems to be winning out for a few precious seconds as thoughts collide into his mind like cars crashing into road signs.

It isn’t until he’s fully dressed that it really begins to settle into his consciousness. She’s gone. _Again_.

It’s worse this time, he thinks, quantifying the hollowness in his bones enough to coax a sheen of tears into his eyes. It was so much better believing she didn’t love him at all.

The click of the door behind him as he leaves ushers in an acute wave of misery. 

***

 

“Uh, Emma?” Granny, of B&B and diner fame, addresses the blonde with concern as she pours her a second cup of coffee.

“Hmm?” Emma asks, her thoughts only of the moment she can return to Killian’s room, greasy breakfast in tow.

“You may want to remind that one he’s got breakfast coming up and a room to pay for.” Granny gestures to the form of Killian beyond the window, taking long, deliberate strides towards the docks.

“Fuck.” Emma is halfway out the door before adding in an angry mutter, “He didn’t see the note.”

The pavement is slippery as Emma nearly wipes out twice in her rush to catch up with him.

“Killian!”

“Killian, _stop_.”

A barely perceptible inclination of his head and he’s walking faster. She finally catches up with him on the docks, his body bent away from her adjusting the rigging on his boat.

“Killian-“

“Look after yourself, Emma.” Killian says, still refusing to turn around.

“Killian, will you just stop for a second and-“

“No need to rehash what happened last night, Swan. I’m a grown man. Besides, I have places to be.” Killian won’t turn around but Emma sees his arms fold across his chest like that of a stubborn child.

Emma huffs an exasperated sigh at his back. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

He angles his body to her then, blue eyes full of confusion as they take in the sight of her.

“I was getting us breakfast. I _did_ leave a note.” Emma watches Killian blink his disbelief away, mouth falling open slightly.

“I realize now I should have forgone the sentimentality of not waking you in favour of avoiding this delightful misunderstanding.” Emma softens her words with a smile, coming close enough to place her hands on Killian’s chest.

Killian’s hands find themselves in her hair as he stares at her.

“I meant what I said last night. I’m tired of running. Do you think you can deal with that?”

Killian’s grin is so wide it may as well be the blinding sun peeking through the clouds.

“I daresay I can get used to the idea, love. Now, let’s go claim our breakfast.”


End file.
